


New World Order

by frenchifries



Series: Future Brite [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon, Post-Sburb/Sgrub
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 19:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8502619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchifries/pseuds/frenchifries
Summary: in which a bunch of mentally ill gay kids cope with life in a new universe





	

It’s been a few weeks since your arrival in the new universe, and you’ve all begun settling in, just a bit. Readjusting to dirt and plants and air and sunshine. With the threat of imminent death now seemingly gone, you’ve had a lot of time to let your thoughts catch up with you.

And boy, do you have a lot of fucking thoughts.

Hell, you’re still kind of reeling from the revelation that your brother might not have been straight—even though in hindsight it was probably really fucking obvious, dude wasn't even trying to hide it—and it’s fucked up because you spent so long agonizing over the image of masculinity you thought he represented, so long laughing at the notion of liking dudes, so long wondering why it hurt—just a little—every time you did… and it was all a big fucking lie. Another meaningless facade, pain you could have been spared if you had just _known_ —

“Are you seriously just sitting under a tree in silence, gazing at the sunset like some sort of inscrutable emo douchelord?”

Your head whips up, muscles tensing briefly before your body realizes, oh, it’s just Karkat. He watches you for a moment, something hesitant and wary in his face, before flopping down by your side. Almost immediately, the growing tightness in your stomach releases. You stretch your legs out, letting your feet splay to either side. He leans bodily against your left arm. (It still fucks you up how _real_ it feels, to touch another person like this, to _be touched_ like this, the firm solid shape of another, how did you live thirteen years without this shit?)

“Uh, that’s _King_ Inscrutable Emo Douchelord, show some fuckin’ respect. Truly the douchiest, emoest, least scrutable of them all. Good luck scrutin’ this ass. It can’t be scruted.”

“How would you be a king _and_ a lord, dumbass?” He shakes his head in mock disappointment. “Seriously, what are you doing out here? Aside from being your usual loser self.”

He’s looking straight ahead, eyes glinting fiery gold and red in the dusk light. It occurs to you that Karkat never was never able to just _watch_ a sunset before this new world. The light edges along his profile, haloing his brow and nose and lips and chin and. Lips and. Fuck you kind of want to kiss him.

Instead you say, “Oh, you know. Just sitting here wondering when my husband will return from the war.”

He gives you a shove at that, but huffs a cute little laugh anyway.

“We’re all back from the war, dipshit, you can have as many husbands as you want.”

You think of saying something stupidly gross like _the only husband I want is you_ , but that’s probably edging just the tiniest bit too close to honesty, so you swallow that thought and shove him back.

“I dunno, man, think we could get John in on this shit? Hell, bring in Jake and Dirk, too, might as well make this scandalously gay cuddle puddle an _incestuous_ scandalously gay cuddle puddle. Rose would def want to watch. Probably whip out her pen and paper to take notes and everything—”

Karkat wheezes another laugh and smooshes a hand over your face. You lick it even though that hand was just on the ground. It tastes like grass. (Three years later and you realize the taste of grass is the kind of thing a guy can start to miss.)

“You are such a piece of shit sometimes, has anyone ever told you that?” he gripes, wiping his palm on your cape. The hand lingers, pulling at the fabric. “And why are you still wearing this crap? Put on some real people clothes, please.”

“You’re complaining, but I know you can’t get enough of these jimjams.”

The truth is they’re comfortable as fuck—feels like wearing nothing at all—and after putting up with so much bullshit, your tolerance for discomfort has plummeted. Jeans? No fuckin’ thanks, man. Also, Karkat may not admit it, but he likes the softness, too. You know this because of the way he can hardly keep his hands off of you, like how he’s now snaking one hand around your waist, the other petting your left forearm. You can’t help but lean into the contact.

“I’m still amazed we didn’t die,” he says, still staring straight ahead. His voice is soft and small, devoid of its usual enthusiastic bluster.

“What, after all it took to get there, you thought we would let ourselves fall at the hands of a bunch of assholes who don’t even matter? Of course we didn’t die, we beat the bad guys, we won, the end.”

(If he knows you’re being maybe just a little bit disingenuous, he doesn’t call you out on it.)

“No, I’m not surprised we didn’t get _killed_ , I didn’t think we’d even make it that far! I mean, a bunch of psychologically damaged, emotionally stunted adolescents, with no responsible supervision, alone on a rock hurtling through a void for a sweep and a half? How in the name of paradox space and all the blistering bullshit it encompasses did we _not die_?”

And, shit. You actually have to think on that one. It wasn’t easy, for sure—the first few months especially. Even if none of your guardians had been particularly nurturing and attentive, there’s still something about the prospect of being utterly unsupervised for such an extended time that wears on you. What sense of obligation is there to eat or sleep or shower when there’s no one to hold you accountable? When society is gone, just straight up fucking completely _gone_ , it’s hard to make yourself get in bed, or get out of bed, or fix your sheets, or _wash_ your sheets, or eat anything other than shitty replicated Cheetos and Froot Loops… Except. You weren’t alone. Being non-functional is a lot more bearable when you’re surrounded by similarly non-functional friends all trying to convince one another to function.

Finally you say, “We all had each other.” It comes out low and quiet, and for a minute (forty-three seconds, actually), neither of you says anything more. You can hear Karkat breathing next to you, steady and rhythmic. It’s nice at first, but a twisting discomfort grows in your gut until you can’t stay quiet.

“Sorry, that was—” _really fucking gay_ you were going to say, but when he turns those glowing eyes on you the words shrivel in your throat. He looks different, you realize suddenly, than that sad angry kid you met three years ago. Still sad and angry, but mostly just… tired. Tired in a bone-deep way, a way he’s grown into. More comfortable in this discomfort, and more than ready for some peace.

“Don’t,” is all he says before burying his face in your neck. “Don’t… apologize.” His arms circle your waist and squeeze and, yeah, maybe everyone is having a rough time of it. You nestle your chin between his horns, wrap your arms around his back, fuckin’ look at the two of you losers cuddling under a tree in the purple dusk light—damn, is it getting that late already?

You’re not sure if you should be saying anything. There’s something about the moment that feels… precious. Safe. You kind of don’t want to ruin it. You hold him close and tight and just. Hear his breath. Feel his heartbeat. It’s over. Fuck, it’s really over, isn’t it? Just as you’re starting to maybe kind of let yourself believe that you made it, you survived—

_Snff._

“Shit, Karkat, no, it’s okay—”

“Sorry,” he mumbles against you. He peeks up at you from under his bangs, lashes low and long and glossy with tears. (Fuck, does it make you a bad person to think he’s pretty even when he’s crying?)

“I just,” he starts again, shakes his head. “Do you ever feel like… things are too good? And you’re sure you’re going to wake up tomorrow and everything will be shitty again because god _fucking_ forbid you have anything nice for too long? God forbid you get comfortable for more than five minutes and forget that you’re supposed to be miserable and afraid all the time?”

You find your arms squeezing him tighter.

“It was one thing when we were desperately clinging to each other under the looming threat of perma-death, but now… I don’t know how to feel.”

And. Fuck. You try your best to quiet the voice in you screaming _he’s talking about you he hates you he doesn’t want to be together anymore_ because obviously that’s stupid, right, that’s not what he’s saying, stop making everything about yourself, asshole…

“What do you mean?” you ask instead of folding in on yourself like you kind of really want to. He must notice the quaver in your voice ( _fuck so stupid shut up what’s wrong with you_ ) because he leans up to plant a furtive kiss at the edge of your mouth. You can’t help your nervous laugh when he glances around skittishly.

“No one’s out here,” you say.

(You don’t fault him for wanting to keep these moments private. Fuck knows it still tears at some part of you, the thought of people seeing you like this, seeing you _with_ Karkat. With a guy? Is that the reason? Christ that’s the dumbest thought, they already know you’re together and your friend group is like ninety-nine percent queer anyway.)

He sighs.

“I mean I’m so used to everything being shitty, and now we just have… eternity in front of us, and a new universe that can be anything we want to make of it, and here I am waiting for someone to yank the soft floor panel out from under us.”

“Soft… is that like a rug or—”

“And I don’t know what to feel! I _want_ to feel okay but I don’t know _how_! I don’t know how to accept that maybe things are good! I’ve never been allowed for things to be good and not have it all destroyed. I’ve never been allowed to feel okay and not have to be constantly vigilant that I’m going to be fucking murdered in my sleep! Fuck, does that even make sense?”

His voice is doing that crackly thing it does when he gets all misty-eyed.

“I know. I know what you mean.” You flatten your hands against his back, try to steady your breathing. “Fuck dude, I feel like that basically all the time. You literally just described my life.”

He headbutts your chest. Gently, but the horns still hurt a little.

“Sorry.”

“Nah man, it’s fine. It’s good. It’s.” You swallow. “We’re supposed to be able to talk about this shit, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I guess we’re supposed to be able to tell each other everything, right?” Panic flutters in your chest.

“Well I don’t know about… _everything_ everything.”

“Right. Yeah. No, I didn’t mean. You’re allowed not to tell me things.”

“Cool. Good. Or, shit, not ‘good’ but like. I meant, you’re allowed not to tell me things, too.”

Haha fuck why is this so awkward all of a sudden??

“There is…”

“What?”

“There is something I wanted to say.”

His hands fidget and twist in the fabric of your cape and. Nope. You’re not going to freak out again. Obviously you just established Freaking Out is stupid and dumb and for dumb stupid shit babies. So, like a normal person, you say:

“What’s the something?”

“Well, I’ve been, um. Talking with Dirk a bit lately.” (Oh god where is this going.) “Fuck, that guy has some relationship issues. He’s surprisingly okay to talk to, though, once you get past the inane bullshit. A lot like you, actually. Which, I guess isn’t that surprising now that I say it.”

“And?”

“And I think I want to help him out. You know. Relationships-wise. It’s… I know I should have learned my lesson trying to meddle in all my friends’ relationships which mind you _would have worked_ if they weren’t a bunch of _dumb fucking wigglers_ who refused to listen to my _incredibly sound and rational advice backed up by sweeps of research_ —”

“Is that all?” you ask because you can tell when these rants are going to be useful and this is, uh, not one of those times. He stops, and blinks at you. Inhales. Exhales. Closes his eyes.

“I think Dirk is attractive!” It comes out fast and loud and for a solid few seconds you’re speechless.

And then you break down laughing.

“Oh my god dude is that it? Fuck, Karkat, you had me all worried!”

“Pfffffuck, sorry, did I really sound that grim?” He’s laughing too, doubled over, sputtering and clinging to the front of your shirt.

“Shit, bro, wanna know a secret? I think he’s attractive, too. As he would say, it’s literally an empirical fact.”

“Oh my god he fucking would, I’m so sorry, that probably came out a lot more alarming than I meant it to.” He sits back up, sighs, wipes his eyes. “It was just something I thought you should know. Since we’re, y’know, being all. Earnest or whatever.”

“Karkat, you are the single more earnest person I have ever met in my entire god damn life. You barely even have to try at it. Shit’s adorable.”

He blushes up to his ears and averts his gaze and you didn’t really mean for that last part to come out but seeing his reaction makes it kind of super worth it.

“Okay,” he says with residual laughter. “Okay. Good. Yeah. I’m glad that’s. I mean, obviously it’s not something to worry about. I probably should have started by saying that.”

Your last few laughs escape as you carefully place a hand along the side of his face.

“Actually.” His eyes snap back to meet yours. “Since I guess it’s honesty hour or whatever, I have something I want to say, too. Nothing to freak over, which, I guess we should be better about making that clear. At least, I hope it’s not freakout-worthy. Um.”

You chuckle awkwardly, bite your lip, look off to the side, back at him. At his mouth, kind of crooked in an uncertain smile, overbite pressing subtly against his lower lip; his cheeks, still soft, but sharper than they were even just a year ago; his eyes—probably your favorite part if you’re being honest—big and shining, hooded by dark lashes and darker brows. And those little remnants of tears, that piece of him he never was quite able to keep inside as well as he’d like, the piece that would betray his outsider status. Desperate as he was to hide from the world, he really has always worn his heart on his sleeve, hasn’t he? (You were sunk from the moment you met him, weren’t you?)

You breathe in through your nose, breathe out the words:

“I think you’re like mad cute when you cry.”

His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, his blush deepens, and you almost laugh with how much the expression reminds you of yourself. But you can’t, not until you know if what you just said was super creepy or not.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know? It means what it sounds like?”

“You… like it when I cry?”

“No, fuck, see, that’s what I was worried you would think I meant but it’s not. It’s not like that. I just. Uh. God it sounds shitty now that I’m saying it but. I dunno, maybe it’s like a pale thing? Like, you’re cute all the time, no doubt—”

(seriously how did this kid hide his blood color with how hard he blushes like who knew it was even possible to blush any more than he already was)

“—but when you, uh. You know. Cry, I guess, it makes me… it makes me feel some type of way. It’s not like I enjoy seeing you upset, it’s just like. Like I want to protect you? Not that, uh, not that I don’t think you can take care of yourself or like I think you’re some helpless fuckin’ damsel in distress or nothing, but like there’s something I can do for you and. I like feeling like I can help. Like I’m useful. Like you’re saying, ‘shit dave i got all these feelings and i cant deal with them so here you take some in the form of my cute pink tears also my super attractive face is somehow even more attractive when i get all sniffly and sheepish’? Does that make sense??”

He… stares. Blinks. Twists his mouth to the side. You don’t know what response you’re expecting, but it’s definitely _not_ for him to launch at you mouth-first and attach himself like a fucking lamprey. You topple backwards from the force of it and then he’s on top of you, macking on your face like nobody’s business.

“Holy shit dude,” you say between smooches. “I’m guessing that was the right thing to say?”

“I know we’ve already smeared the quadrants to the ends of the universe and back but _bugwinged fuck_ Dave that was the palest shit I ever heard get said.”

“Haha I doubt it, man, I’ve seen your trollmance novel collection, that shit is pretty spectacular. Awe-inspiring, even. I bet Rose is so jelly, bet she wishes she could worship at the softcore smut altar of Vantas. Pretty sure you’ve read sappier shit than whatever garbage I just spewed, or seen it in a movie, or—”

“I meant by a real person, dipshit.” His voice is strained, almost… hurt? Did you say something wrong? Was it—

You go awash with something hot and gooey when his damp cheek presses against yours. Your heart does some dumb fluttery thing and you wish wish wish it weren’t so dark out by now, wish you could see him, even when he plucks the shades from your face to brush his lips over your eyelids it’s too dark to make out all the details…

But his eyes, wet and warm and bordering on luminescent, those you can see just fine. And, shit, that’s the most important part, you guess.

“Fuck Karkat I love you so much.” It’s all you can think, all you can say, breathy and quiet and desperate. “How did I get so lucky, god you’re so, you’re so _perfect_ —”

He makes a sound like you just fucking _stabbed_ him, and you’re about to ask if he’s okay but he just smashes his mouth against yours and twists a hand in your hair and moans and _sobs_ between your lips holy shit is this supposed to be as hot as you’re finding it?

He pulls away for breath and you brush a thumb along his cheek, through the tear tracks, under his eye. He leans into it, nuzzles your hand, grabs it gently by the wrist and kisses your palm and—

_snap_

You shoot apart and your stomach nearly leaps straight out your throat. Your hands twitch at the ready. Karkat growls, all primal buzzing insectoid warning, as he whips his head around to find the impudent trespasser. He quiets and slumps just as quickly when he, presumably, doesn’t see anyone. Your heartbeat slows marginally.

“Was that…?”

“Nobody. I guess. Unless it was John doing his windy thing. Or Roxy doing her voidy thing. Is that a thing she does?”

“Uhh probably?”

Slowly, by degrees, he settles back down against you. You’re sure you could pick the heat of the moment back up if you tried, but the reminder that even under the cover of night someone could see you dampens the mood a little.

“It’s dark.”

“I know.”

“I know y’all are just fine staying up all night, but for us humans, that means it’s time for sleeping. Or at least sitting in a dark room for eight hours.”

“I know, dumbass.”

“It’s gonna get cold.”

“Dave, if you want to go inside, you could just say so.”

“I know.”

He groans and swats at your face playfully as you heave yourselves off the ground.

“Remind me why I picked literally the most obnoxiously obtuse human to be in love with?”

You go hot from head to toe and he drops his face to your shoulder.

“Oh fuck I just said that, didn’t I.”

 _In love with._ It shouldn’t feel that different from all the _I love you_ s the pair of you exchange on the regular, but… you roll the phrases around in your head. _I love you. I’m in love with you._ Maybe it’s because the former suggests a behavior, the _act_ of loving someone, but the latter… well shit, that implies a state of being, doesn’t it? The condition of _being in love with_ someone. Not something you _do_ , but something you _are_.

God your brain is starting to sound like Rose, or Dirk, or both. But they’re smart, so maybe that’s a good thing.

“Hey,” you say softly, nudging him. He looks at you, then promptly flushes and re-buries his face. “Just thought you should know. Since I guess we’re doing this, bro. I’m in love with you, too.”

Another groan, even more pained this time.

“Dave you can’t just _say shit_ like that!”

“I can and I will.” You heft him up into your arms, bridal style, ignoring the half-hearted squawk of protest (and the nervous twist of your stomach, _god_ you just _said that_ ). But, shit, maybe you should get in the habit of baring your soul more often if it gets him all mushed up like this. “And another thing.”

“No more, please!” He lets slip a surprised chirrup when you kick off into flight.

“I like being around you.”

“Noooo!”

“I don’t like being alone.”

“Kill me now! Just fucking drop me you ass!”

“I was alone for so long, Karkat. I don’t wanna ever go back to that. I just wanna be with all you guys forever.”

He shakes his head, whimpers, tightens his grip around your torso.

“What you were saying. About being scared. I’m scared, too, dude. I’m having a hard time believing we get to just… live. Here, together, all of us. No tricks, no bullshit. Man, I… I grew up scared. I had to be. I’ve told you some of it. I don’t think you’d wanna hear the rest of it.”

Maybe this is going further than you meant it to, but you’re feeling pretty damn shaky and floaty all of a sudden, and not just because you’re flying. He makes a sound, high and reedy, and something in you throbs.

“Dave, you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“So tell me.”

“Can’t you feel that?”

“Feel wh– oh. _Oh._ ”

That’s. He’s doing that purring thing, those clicky duotone harmonics emanating from his chest. The ones he says aren’t supposed to happen at the same time. The one that says _I want you_ , and the one that says _I need you_.

“How can you reek of flush pheromones and _still_ be so unbelievably pitiful?” he whines. “You’re killing me, Dave. I’m gonna die from too many feelings and it’s gonna be your fault.”

You just chuckle and nuzzle the top of his head.

“Not if you kill me first.”

* * *

When you get home, he pulls you straight to bed and paps you into oblivion.


End file.
